Deacon Locke Went to Prom

By Brian Katcher

The love life of an awkward teen takes an unforgettable turn after he brings his grandmother to prom in this funny, offbeat, and smile-inducing contemporary romance that is pitch perfect for fans of Jesse Andrews and Robyn Schneider.

Promposals are taking over Deacon Locke’s high school and there is no place left to hide. But even with graduation looming, shy and unusually tall Deacon doesn’t think he can get up the nerve to ask anyone to the dance. Especially given all the theatrics.

It isn’t until Deacon confides in his witty and outgoing best friend Jean that he realizes should could be a great person to take. Only problem is Jean isn’t your typical prom date. She’s older. A lot older. And she’s Deacon’s grandmother.

But when Deacon meets Soraya—a girl unlike any other he’s ever met—he fears he has totally squandered his chances of having a prom he’ll never forget. Deacon couldn’t be more wrong. About everything.

Deacon Locke Went to Prom is award-winning author Brian Katcher’s fifth novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9780062422545

Brian Katcher

Brian Katcher is the author of the Stonewall Book Award-winning novel Almost Perfect, Playing with Matches, and Everyone Dies in the End. He lives in central Missouri with his wife, Sandra, and his daughter, Sophie. When he's not writing, he's working as a school librarian and a member of the Forever Young Adult blogging group.

Book preview

ONE

THE FANCY COUPLE IN THE STOCK PHOTO ARE GRINNING so wide, their mouths almost look deformed. It’s like something out of a propaganda banner: Join the Glorious Soviet Army!

They’re not wearing Red Army uniforms, of course. The boy is wearing a tux, the girl, some sort of dress.

STEPPING OUT IN STYLE

FAYETTEVILLE HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR PROM

TICKETS ON SALE NOW

Stepping out in style. Who the hell comes up with these themes? There’s probably an official, administration-approved list somewhere. Even I could come up with better names. Infectious Waste Disposal, for instance. 96-Hour Psychiatric Hold. The Slums of Bangkok.

Those would also make good names for college bands, by the way.

Maybe my cynical nature is the reason I’ve never been to a school dance. And not because the idea of asking out a girl fills me with crippling panic. It’s not that. So put that thought out of your mind. Because that’s not what it is.

I check the date on the poster. May 6. One month from today. If I’m going to go to this dance, I have to get a date. Like, this week. I’m not going to chicken out this time. Not like homecoming. Or junior prom. Or the spring formal. Or homecoming last year. Or that sock hop thing.

I find Kelli in the back parking lot, directing the loading of boxes of canned goods into the back of a truck. Even in the mild Arkansas spring, she’s dressed in heavy black jeans and a tight sweater that shows off her curves. Though she’s just over five feet tall, she has a commanding presence. Her minions leap to obey her orders as to how the loot from the food drive is to be stacked and stowed.

Just seeing her there, I’m overcome with an intense feeling of . . .

Uh . . .

Well, not love. Like, maybe. Compatibility. Familiarity.

Deacon! Come over here!

There’s no other option but obedience.

Kelli blows her nose into a sodden Kleenex, then points to a cart. It’s loaded to the gills with pumpkin-pie filling, evaporated milk, Spam, and the other canned-food rejects people give to the poor. You wanna give us a hand? Her eyes smile at me through her round John Lennon glasses.

I bend down and grip the cart by both ends, lifting it slightly to get a sense of the weight.

Deacon?

Trying not to grunt, I hoist it chest high. I stagger, but don’t fall.

Deacon!

I nearly topple over backward but manage to stay upright. I shove the cart into the back of the truck.

I turn to see Kelli and her flunkies staring at me.

Um, thanks. But I just wanted you to pull the ramp out for us.

I quickly grab the toggle and extend the truck’s built-in ramp. In retrospect, that makes a lot more sense.

Thanks. We’ll take it from here. She shoots me a tolerant smile, showing off her overbite.

Last year I heard a guy making comments about her teeth, how they would make it difficult for her to perform a certain biological act (I shan’t elaborate further). Later, I took him aside and explained how I felt such comments were unworthy of a gentleman. He’s avoided us both ever since.

I sit down on the nearby bike rack, which groans slightly, and watch as Kelli’s crew makes short work of the remaining cans. For someone so small, she sure takes up a lot of space. I’ll never forget the first time I ran into her.

Watch where you’re going, you big stupid asshole!

We’ve talked every day since then. Eaten together. Studied together.

Never did a single thing outside of school together.

She’s my closest friend here. I guess, technically, my only friend at Fayetteville High. But I’m the new guy. I only enrolled two years ago.

The other workers wander off. I watch them leave with a sense of foreboding. It’s now or never.

Of course, there’s always tomorrow. . . .

No! I’m not going to wimp out this time! My great-grandfather was a Scotsman! My grandfather lost his leg in Vietnam! I can ask a friend to go to a dance with me.

Kelli is busy filling out some paperwork on a clipboard. I walk up behind her.

You’re blocking the sun, Deacon.

I force a laugh. It really sounds forced. The sun is over a million miles in diameter. You honestly think I could block that?

She sets down her clipboard and looks up. And up. You? Yeah, I think you could.

I shift uncomfortably. While I’m not the tallest guy in school, I . . .

Okay, I am the tallest guy. And not by a little bit.

But then Kelli smiles at me. Her dimples appear. They’re so deep they look like a bullet passed through each of her cheeks.

Good one, Deacon. Open with that.

Kelli . . .

Are you okay? You look like you’re going to barf or something.

Here goes nothing. We’re about to graduate.

She nods. Yes, I’m aware of that.

I always feel dumb when I talk to her. Maybe that’s why I like her. Since she’s impossible to impress, there’s no pressure to try.

And I . . . there’s something I’d like to ask you. I’ve armed the bomb. There’s no turning back.

What’s that?

Well . . . God, why is it so hot out here? I wanted to ask . . .

No, she cuts in. What’s that?

She points at something over my shoulder. I turn, grateful for the reprieve.

I can see what’s grabbed her attention. Over in the soccer fields, a knight in shining armor has ridden up on a horse. Seriously. A knight.

Okay, he’s not so much riding a white stallion as a pony, led by a middle-aged man. And the knight’s armor is made out of tinfoil-coated cardboard and a spray-painted bike helmet. But still. The girls’ soccer team stops their practicing. One player shrieks and covers her mouth with her hands.

The knight is helped down from the saddle by the horse wrangler. He then falls to one knee. We’re sitting too far away to hear what he asks, but the girl’s resounding YES! echoes off the scoreboards.

As often happens, I don’t understand what’s going on, and I look to Kelli for an answer. She seems to read my mind.

A promposal. It’s trending.

Huh?

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, which happens at least once during all our conversations. He’s asking her to the prom. Big, fancy spectacle. A lot of people are doing it.

Huh. Now that I think about it, there have been quite a few costumed serenades in the halls this week. That explains a lot.

The girl has now replaced her date on the back of the animal, while the man leads them around the outskirts of the field.

Hey, Kelli?

Yeah?

I close my eyes, curl my toes, and swallow. I was wondering.

What?

Would you like to . . . would you like to . . .

Spit it out, Deacon.

Want to go pet the horse?

She looks up at me and shows me her dimples. Hell, yes! C’mon!

She jogs ahead. I follow.

Somewhere, the ghost of my grandfather laughs at me.

I’m home! I bellow.

Deacon Locke, I swear to God if you slam that screen door again I will personally carve out your eyeballs and feed them to the crows!

Missed you too, Jean.

It’s funny. I’ve known my grandmother my whole life, but I never once called her grandma, or granny, or nana. She’s always been Jean to me.

I find her in the kitchen. While the heavenly smell of tonight’s meatloaves wafts from the stove, Jean has taken a break from her cooking. I wince when I see she has her oil paints out and is wearing a smock over her housedress. Her hair and makeup, of course, are perfectly in place.

Not that I have a problem with her crafting obsession. It’s just that a guy can only own so many bedazzled sweaters and crocheted toothpaste cozies. I paste on a smile, mentally composing a glowing review of whatever she’s painted.

What do you think? She cocks her head.

I’m actually kind of floored. It’s a portrait, and I instantly recognize the subject.

Wow, that’s amazing. The likeness . . . it’s uncanny.

She beams up at me. You really think so? I thought the mouth came out funny.

Are you kidding? I’d know that guy anywhere. Ol’ Johnny Cash.

Jean’s face falls. That’s your grandfather, Deacon.

Whoops. Better laugh it off. Johnny Cash was my grandfather? Then why aren’t we rich?

Very funny. She shakes her head and closes her paint box. Now tell me, how did it go today?

Trying to ignore the question, I dig in the fridge for a snack. The usual. School.

Jean removes her smock and folds it. So did you ask that girl? What did she say? Do you need money for the tickets?

I stick my head into the fridge and wince. Living alone with Jean in this old farmhouse . . . I guess I tell her pretty much everything. She’s a good listener. But I kind of wish I hadn’t shared my plans about asking Kelli to prom. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and now that Jean knows, she’ll never let me back out.

I’ll ask her tomorrow.

Jean closes the refrigerator door, just barely missing my head. You’ve been saying that for days. What’s your excuse this time?

I’m having a hard time meeting her eyes, and not just because of the nearly two-foot height difference. This horse came onto the soccer field—

The truth, Deacon. Even your father could have come up with a better story than that.

I laugh. I’m serious. It was part of this guy’s promposal.

Jean is about to check something on the stove but pauses. Don’t throw your slang at me. I’m too old. Your aunt used to do that. I still have no idea what ‘gag me with a spoon’ means.

This is hard to explain. I don’t even fully understand the concept. A promposal is like a proposal. To prom. In costume.

She looks perplexed. Why a costume?

I pause. I’m not sure.

Jean rolls her eyes. Reality TV ruined your generation. Back when I was your age, a boy would simply ask a young lady to the dance. We were honored to be asked and didn’t expect more than a sincere smile.

I don’t comment on this. Honestly, I can’t buy the idea of every boy in the late sixties being a perfect gentleman. I think everyone secretly believes that their generation was the last to have manners and take risks. And the first to have sex. And that Saturday Night Live was funniest whenever they first started watching it.

I remember how I could barely even talk to Kelli, despite two years of friendship. Acquaintanceship. Going-to-the-same-schoolship.

How about you pick up the phone and call her right now? says Jean.

Just let me handle it. Is supper ready?

Jean is having none of my excuses. We’ll eat when we’re done talking.

Jean, you know that song ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’? I really like that tune.

She shakes her head. My favorite grandson—

Your only grandson.

Going to miss what should be a great night, just because he won’t get off his duff and ask someone.

This is kind of uncharacteristic of Jean. In her eyes, I can do no wrong. Why is prom such a sticking point with her?

What’s the big deal about some stupid dance? So I can sit around and stare at my date? I’m not exactly a dancer.

You’ve no one to blame but yourself. Your father went to his prom, you know. Said he had a wonderful time.

Dad had told me about that night once, when I was still living with him. Wasn’t that when he wrecked Grandpa’s pickup?

She keeps talking as if I hadn’t spoken. You’re going to be a college man in a few months. Those girls are going to expect you to be confident. Adult. How are you going to do that if you spend every night here with me?

Didn’t realize hanging out with me was such a burden for you. That statement sounded a lot less whiny in my head.

Jean stands, wipes her hands on her towel, and walks over to me. She touches my arm.

"Deacon, having you live with me was one of the great joys of my life. But you’re no longer a little boy. Well, you were never a little boy, but that’s beside the point. This isn’t about the prom. I just need to know that someday, when I’m not around—"

Why does every old person like to talk about death? Jesus.

—that you’ll be okay on your own. No more excuses. Now, are you going to make an effort to get out more? Start bringing home girls I can disapprove of?

I think of Kelli. Maybe it’s all in my head. Of course it’s all in my head. I’ll ask her out tomorrow.

Okay, Jean.

And you’ll make the most out of college, and not lock yourself up in your dorm every night?

Yes.

But not waste your time partying, flunk out twice, and suddenly move to Arizona because that’s where the rest of the band is?

Funny, same thing happened to my father. No.

And you’ll marry a nice girl and provide me with lots of great-grandchildren to play with?

You’re really pushing it.

We both laugh. I pick up the plates to take to the dining room. (In Jean’s world, eating in the kitchen is reserved for breakfast and informal luncheons.) But then I stop. There’s something I need to talk to her about.

Hey, um, what happened to your taillights?

She turns and stirs something on top of the stove. What’s that?

On your car. I’m pretty sure you had two of them when I left the house this morning.

She doesn’t face me. Someone must have hit me in the parking lot at the Walmart. Drivers today, too busy interneting to pay attention.

I head to the dining room. A distracted driver. That’s what she always says when I ask her about the new dents and missing parts on her car.

That driver must have really been distracted. He also managed to gouge a big gash in that pine tree out front.

Jean’s driving has gotten a lot worse recently. There’s been a couple of close calls at stoplights that scared the hell out of me. But every time I suggest she may not be up for driving anymore, she denies it.

Looks like I’m not the only one in this house who’s worried about the future.

TWO

I FIND KELLI IN HER USUAL BEFORE-SCHOOL SPOT, IN that little area next to the vending machines in the cafeteria. The table in front of her is covered with used Kleenexes.

She sneezes hello.

Allergies again?

She nods, miserably. I’ll be okay in a couple of days. She blows her nose. Because I’ll be dead.

You ever really, really want to give someone a hug?

She squirts hand sanitizer on her palms, then passes me something from her bag. It’s a copy of Sky and Telescope.

There’s an article about that WIRO observatory in Wyoming, she says with a sniff. I thought you’d like to see it.

I already have a copy of this issue. Thanks! I say, maybe just a little too intently and loudly. Can’t wait to read it.

She smiles the miserable smile of the ill.

Kelli . . . C’mon, Deacon. Kelli . . .

Yes?

I . . .

Her bloodshot eyes bore into me.

Kelli, you and I have been friends for two years. It wasn’t easy for me to fit in when I moved here, and I appreciate that you took the time to talk to me, even if it was just to cuss me out at first.

I . . .

And, well, school is almost at an end. Prom’s coming up, and since neither of us is seeing anyone . . .

I . . .

I was just wondering if you’d like to go with me. I think we’d have fun. You don’t have to answer today, but just give it some thought, okay?

I . . .

Deacon? Are you all right?

Why are the voices in my head always so much more suave than me?

Sorry, my mind was wandering.

I have to ask her. Right now. Before I lose my nerve. Or before she coughs up another wad of mucus and I lose my breakfast.

Hey! shouts a shrill, masculine voice from behind us.

It’s Elijah Haversham, from my American Literature class. The kid who never shuts up. He reminds me of this novelty parrot toy my dad used to have that would babble gibberish over and over again, long past the point of being amusing.

He pulls up a chair and begins flipping through the magazine Kelli brought me. I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed or relieved at the interruption.

Whoa, astrology! What’s my horoscope? I’m a Gemini.

Kelli winks at me. Astronomy, Elijah. Real, actual science.

He runs a hand through his thinning blond hair and fixes Kelli with a deranged grin. I didn’t used to buy into the whole star-sign thing either. But get this. My uncle, he was a Cancer. Now guess what he was just diagnosed with?

She frowns. Cancer?

No, crabs.

Kelli laughs. Maybe a little more than she’s ever laughed at anything I’ve ever said. I’m about to suggest that Elijah find somewhere else to be when a loud trumpet blast cuts through the lunchroom.

When I turn and see a crowd of sequin-suited mariachis march into the room . . . I wish I could say I’m surprised. I truly do.

We stand for a better look. I peer over the spectators’ heads.

Yep, should have seen it coming. The grinning guy with the rose in his hand. The teary-eyed girl. The invitation to prom. The applause from the crowd.

Where the hell do you find mariachis in Arkansas? says Elijah, hovering at my elbow. He taps his forehead, as if trying to force the thoughts back into his brain. Seriously, can you believe this? Another promposal. Isn’t that a douchey word? What the hell are we coming to?

He turns and faces Kelli. You’re a girl, right?

She nods, warily.

I mean . . . is this what women expect these days? Someone clunking out hundreds of dollars before the dance even happens? Do us poor guys even stand a chance?

I hold my breath. What if she agrees with Elijah? I’m totally screwed. I can’t prompose. Not like that. Please say no.

Kelli rolls her eyes. Ha! This is nothing but a scam created by the corporate overlords to get us to pour cash into their coffers. Not to mention an attempt by the patriarchy to reduce women to a subservient and supplicant role.

I don’t know what most of that means, but it seems like she’s not impressed by the promposals. I start to breathe again.

Although . . .

Crap.

I mean, it might be nice if a guy, you know, put a little thought into asking you. Nothing crazy, but it might make one feel special to know he took a little time to . . . She shakes her head, then sneezes. I have to go. See you, Deacon.

I watch as she vanishes among the sparkly sombreros.

Wonderful. Even Kelli wouldn’t mind some sort of theatrical promposal. And thanks to Elijah, I can’t pretend I don’t know this.

So is she your girlfriend? asks Elijah, who, it seems, is still here.

No, Elijah. I try to do the gravel-voiced leave me alone tone. I apparently fail.

Why not? Are you gay? ’Cause I’m cool with that.

No.

She’s kind of cute. You should take her out. Haul her up the side of the Empire State Building in your hand. He laughs at his own joke, a braying, donkey-like sound.

Elijah, it’s not that I want you to go away, but I want you to GO AWAY.

He waves both palms at me. Hey, you don’t have to tell me twice.

He then proceeds not to leave.

Actually, Deacon, maybe you can help me. You see, I’m kind of having a problem of a romantical nature myself. There’s this girl Clara. She’s in my math class. She’s so funny and smart and . . . wow. She works at C & R Hardware. I was there the other day buying a C-clamp. One of my many vices. He suddenly looks at me with a grin. After a moment, he shrugs and continues. She was demonstrating a power drill. And normally I find drills so boring. Again, the weird smile. Hell, did you ever meet a girl and she’s all you can think about, and you know you don’t have a chance, but you’re just going to kick yourself if you don’t end up asking her out? Should I go for it?

Since the semester started, I’ve maybe said ten words to him. He’s said about ten thousand to me. I have no idea why he thinks I, of all people, would have romantic advice for him.

Sure, man. Whatever.

The warning bell rings.

Okay. I’ll do it. Thanks, Deke. He galumphs off.

Deke?

That night, I sit on the hill behind our house adjusting my telescope. It’s hours after Jean has gone to bed, probably nearly ten o’clock. The sky is a little overcast. I can’t really see anything but Jupiter. No matter. Sky gazing near Fayetteville isn’t what it used to be, not since the suburban sprawl began edging out here.

When I first started visiting Jean, this place seemed like it was in the middle of the jungle. I must have been five or six. Probably younger than that, right after my mom died. Dad was just beginning to go off on his business trips. He’d leave me here for days. Sometimes weeks. Jean and I would explore the overgrown meadows behind her old farmhouse. She would have been in her late fifties then, but she always had the energy to chase a five-foot-tall kindergartner around the yard. And when Dad started pursuing financial opportunities around the country, the trips to Jean’s were the only stability in my life.

I focus in on the